


Yuletide with the Scavengers

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Gen, Holidays, Humor, Theft, Yuletide, festive robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scavengers’ latest heist has yielded a box with an Autobot logo on top and a trove of holiday goodies inside.  Thrilled by the new discovery, Misfire, Crankcase and Spinister decide to try this Christmas business for themselves.  But Krok’s not celebrating, Grimlock’s celebrating a little too well, and Fulcrum is getting the feeling that he’s made a terrible mistake.  Plus two epilogues with special guest stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Have Yourself a Greasy Little Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t wait any longer for “Christmas with the Scavengers,” so in the fine fanfic tradition I made my own rendition. Presenting “Yuletide with the Scavengers.”
> 
> I have no idea what James Roberts has in mind for "Christmas with the Scavengers" beyond the title. All ideas here are my own.
> 
> I stink at Secret Santa, so this is my Secret Santa to the whole TF fandom.
> 
> This story is in six parts: four chapters and two epilogues. 
> 
> Set after Megatron joins the Lost Light but before Slaughterhouse. Possibly AU, depending on where MTMTE goes in upcoming issues. This isn’t a romance-oriented story, but there’s a little bit of Misfire/Fulcrum affection. And, since it’s my fic, I’ve put in a few nods to some of my holiday favourites.
> 
> Whatever you celebrate, I hope you have a very happy holiday season and a Shining New Year.

Chapter One: Have Yourself A Greasy Little Christmas

All in all, it was not Fulcrum’s favourite way to spend an evening. 

Okay, so they were broke. And hungry. And the Weak Anthropic Principle had blown a gasket. They’d done their best to find honest work in order to earn their way off this rock, but there wasn’t much of that to be found on a lunar space station most commonly frequented by pirates, mercenaries and other characters of even more dubious virtue than the Decepticon Scavengers.

In the end, it had come down to this: breaking into a storage unit in search of whatever junk they could find.

Fulcrum _hated_ breaking into storage units. It was just so…so _greasy_. He’d much rather break into rich guys’ houses—people so well off they’d never even notice a little missing fuel and a few absent knickknacks. Or, at least they didn’t notice unless Misfire threw a rock through their front window. That…tended to happen. Kind of _often_.

But the rich guys on this space station had houses with better security than most of the Decepticon bases where Fulcrum had been stationed in his previous life. There was no way six Scavengers who were out of credits, out of ammo and out of luck were going to break in there.

Storage units it was, then.

The alarms went off the instant Grimlock tore the front door off its hinges, but that didn’t matter. This was a grab-and-go. The Scavengers would be long gone before anyone showed up, as long as they didn’t linger.

And for once, luck smiled on them. Fulcrum looked around and realized they’d hit the mother lode.

Crankcase loaded Grimlock up with a big fuel cell and told him to follow Spinister, who was out the door in seconds with a crate full of medical supplies. Crankcase scooped up a case of starship parts for himself and took off after the Dynobot. 

Krok had zeroed in on the container of maps, charts and manuals right away, but he’d lingered, keeping a close eye on Misfire. Misfire dithered, trying to choose between a big box of energon cubes—tasteless but nutritious—and a huge case of Data Chipz, his favourite snack, tasty, but hard on the systems if used as a primary fuel source. In the end, Krok shoved the container of maps into Misfire’s arms and ordered him to run. Krok scooped up the energon cubes…but not before grabbing a few bags of Data Chipz for Misfire.

By that point, Fulrum swore he could hear some kind of engine in the distance, and he didn’t want to be anywhere around when whoever they’d ripped off showed up. Still, he hesitated.

He could’ve taken the rest of the snacks. Misfire would’ve liked that. Or he could’ve helped himself to some of the cartons labelled LAB EQUIPMENT, SCIENCE WING or RESEARCH DISCS. That kind of swag was right up Fulcrum’s alley. He could even have taken some of the crystals, which would’ve brought a good price on the secondary market once they got off this rock. Primus knew the Scavengers always needed shanix.

But in the end, Fulcrum had grabbed the box with the Autobot logo on top.

He’d made a bad choice, Fulcrum told himself as he ran after the others. He didn’t even know what was _in_ this damned thing. It might just be junk. It was probably junk. He should’ve picked something useful.

But he looked down at the box as he ran and couldn’t help the smile splitting his lips.

He was Decepticon enough to know that if you had a chance to take an Autobot’s stuff, you took it.

Whatever that stuff might be.

#

The first order of business was helping Crankcase, Spinister and Krok get a replacement gasket installed in the WAP. The second order of business was getting the hell off that rock and back into space. By the time the ship was cruising along steadily, Fulcrum decided it would be okay to let Crankcase and Spinister install the new fuel cell, with heavy lifting assistance from Grimlock. He was off to his hab suite/ersatz lab to unlock the secrets of the Autobot box.

Fulcrum couldn’t help but feel a little bit of a thrill. Answering questions and solving problems were what he _lived_ for. And if the box was empty…well, nobody would ever need to know.

Except that when he got back to his room, he found Misfire sitting on his bunk, eating Data Chipz and scattering crumbs all over the bedding.

“Misfire!” Fulcrum hissed. “What have I told you about eating in my berth?”

“Um…” Misfire chewed, deep in thought. “That it attracts turborats?”

“No! Well, _yes_ , but the _important_ part is… _don’t_!”

“You are always so _tense_ ,” Misfire said dismissively, in a way that made Fulcrum want to scream. Still, the purple jet did get up off Fulcrum’s bunk, even if he left a trail of crumbs behind him. “Your room is so boring when you’re not in it.”

Fulcrum had heard that complaint before. Fortunately, he’d been working on a solution.

“Hey Misfire,” Fulcrum said, “I think I got that secondhand GameStation working. Why don’t you check it out?” he invited, pointing to the screen set up in the corner. The GameStation wasn’t pretty—he’d had to rewire it, and he hadn’t been able to get the rear hatch back on—but the important thing was, Fulcrum knew darn well it was operational. He’d repaired it and set it up in his room for the sole purpose of giving Misfire something to do rather than annoy him while he was working. 

Misfire’s optics flickered with interest. “You got Cogs of Combat?”

“There’s a couple Cogs of Combat games in that box over there.”

“Sweet.” Misfire sat down on a crate and used it as a chair, scooting forward while the GameStation booted up.

It wasn’t Misfire’s fault, really. He couldn’t help his attention deficit any more than Fulcrum could help being afraid of…well, pretty much everything. Fulcrum couldn’t force Misfire to settle down any more than he could make Spinister smarter or Crankcase happier. The only thing Fulcrum could do about Misfire’s more irritating habits was to give Misfire something that could keep his mind and hands busy while they hung out together.

“Fulcrum, it works!” Misfire exclaimed. “You’re a genius!”

A volley of simulated gunfire blasted from his speakers; then a recorded voice boomed, “MURDERGEDDON!” 

“Yeah, that’s great. Can you turn it down?” Fulcrum winced.

Misfire pouted, but complied, halfway through the announcement of “SLAUGHTERPOCALYPSE!”

Fulcrum rolled his optics. “How can you be such a good shot in those games and such a lousy shot in real life?”

“You’re just jealous ‘cause I got leet skillz. Loser.”

Misfire grinned at him. Fulcrum, despite himself, grinned back.

“So, you gonna open it?” Misfire asked.

Fulcrum had almost forgotten his reason for coming here. He was just so happy to see Misfire enjoying the GameStation, and so looking forward to being able to hang out with his friend without having to constantly guard his stuff from being broken by a bumbling jet. Now his attention was drawn back to the Autobot box. “Oh. Yeah. Okay, here goes.”

Fulcrum examined the lock. Carefully, he pulled out a tiny device and plugged it in to the side of the automated lock.

“That’s not a crowbar, pinhead.”

“I don’t need a crowbar.”

“Cutting torch?”

“No.”

“Rocket launcher?”

“I’m not going to force it open…” Fulcrum took a deep breath, trying to summon the courage to give as good as he got. “Dummy.”

Misfire smirked.

“This little thingy goes through every number in sequence. Sooner or later, one of them is going to match the combination, and when it does, the lock will open.”

“Really? Wow, you’re smart.”

“Nah. I’m just scared that popping the hinges would start a self-destruct sequence.”

Fulcrum was half joking, and half serious, but Misfire laughed loudly and then executed a complicated maneuver in the game that left what appeared to be a sizeable enemy formation smouldering in his wake. Fulcrum had no idea how Misfire could talk and ace the game at the same time. It took all of Fulcrum’s concentration just to be passably decent at Cogs of Combat. Fulcrum watched Misfire intently, but the jet didn’t seem to be cheating at all. He simply had more aptitude for mashing buttons than pulling triggers. Fulcrum was so wrapped up in cheering Misfire on that he almost missed the clicking sound when the lock popped open.

“Hey. Misfire.”

“Watch me fight the boss!”

“Pause that and come over here. It’s open!”

“Really?” Misfire looked over, causing his online avatar to suffer an instant bloody death at the hands of the level’s boss. Misfire groaned. 

Fulcrum ran a full spectrum analysis while Misfire paused his game. The thing wasn’t radioactive, wasn’t giving off gas, and there were none of the telltale residues left by explosives.

“All right,” Misfire said, leering, rubbing his hands together as he approached. “Let’s see what we’ve got!”

“It might not be anything,” Fulcrum cautioned. “It might be empty. It might be…might be, you know, ten copies of the Autobot Code personally autographed by Ultra Magnus.”

“Or it might be _the Matrix_ ,” Misfire giggled.

Fulcrum highly doubted it was the Matrix. He was on the verge of telling Misfire not to be stupid, the Autobots wouldn’t hide their most precious artifact in a box in a storage unit on a seedy space station, but a look at his friend caused him to bite his tongue. Misfire’s expression of gleeful anticipation was…well, Fulcrum didn’t want to ruin that. 

Not just yet.

“Can I open it?” Misfire demanded, wiggling with excitement.

Fulcrum couldn’t tell if he was being nice, or the kind of complete jerk who lets his friend open something that might possibly have a self-destruct sequence, when he said yes.

Misfire whooped and threw the lid open before Fulcrum even had a chance to step back and turn off his optics.

When five seconds had passed and Fulcrum had not exploded or otherwise suffered a gruesome demise, he dared to take a look. Misfire was staring down into the box, arms braced one on either side, looking befuddled.  
“What is it?” Fulcrum asked.

“Some kind of data,” Misfire said, reaching into the box and holding up a handful of discs and sticks. “Aw, I bet it’s Autobot strategy manuals or something.”

“If it is, we’ll give it to Krok,” Fulcrum said, determined to be positive for once in his life. If they were really lucky, it might be vids or music.

“I think I’ve got some players that can play these things,” Fulcrum said.

“Cool! Call me when it’s working,” Misfire said, returning to his game.

Fulcrum plugged the first stick into his terminal, checking the format of the files. This one was, surprisingly enough, a compilation of music. Fulcrum knew he had a jury-rigged sound system around here somewhere…

As he set up the speakers on his desk, Fulcrum couldn’t help but smile to himself. In his life as a chief engineer, his job had been as much bureaucracy and paperwork as actual engineering. Now he got so much time to tinker, and he’d found out he was surprisingly good at it. If it wasn’t for the constant hunger and lawbreaking and running for his life, he might actually be happier _now_.

A list of files displayed on Fulcrum’s terminal. Fulcrum skimmed the titles:

_Jingle Bells_

_Santa Claus Is Coming To Town_

_Snoopy’s Christmas_

_Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_

Fulcrum wrinkled his nose.

_What in the Inferno was this?!_


	2. The Decepticons Who Stole Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, Crankcase's new holiday favourite is "The Shepherd" by Frederick Forsyth, narrated by "Fireside Al" Maitland. You can listen on Youtube if you don't get CBC radio. And if you like aircraft and/or spooky stuff anywhere near as much as Crankcase, do give it a listen.

Fulcrum pressed the play button on his jury-rigged sound system and bells pealed throughout his workshop.

Misfire looked up, hitting the mute button on Cogs of Combat. The rollicking strains of a cheerful song rang out from Fulcrum’s speakers.

“Hey, this music is is kind of catchy,” said Misfire. “What else is in that box?”

“Vids and novels.” Fulcrum scrolled through list upon list of entertainment stored on the data sticks he’d found in the mysterious Autobot box. “The books are weird—no pictures—but I think I found one Crankcase is going to like. Apparently it’s about a spaceship pilot who gets lost and meets a ghost.”

“Spacecraft and ghost stories, Crankcase’s two favourite things,” Misfire agreed.

“The vids are all from a planet called…Earth. Ugh. Organics are so unoriginal. Seriously, every second species names their homeworld some variation on Dirt or Ground or something. As though they want the entire galaxy to know that they have great mud there.”

“Earth? That’s the world that made _As the Kitchen Sinks_. I love that show!”

“You recognize any of these titles? _A Christmas Carol, Trailer Park Boys Xmas Special, How The Grinch Stole Christmas, Rudolph’s Shiny New Year?”_

Misfire was actually quiet for three point six seconds while he thought about it. “Nope!” he said. “Think we can talk Krok into letting us watch them on the viewscreen in the lounge?”

“Probably. Oh, hey, here’s some proper books. Files are really short, though… _The True Meaning of Crumbfest, The Night Before Christmas, Christmas for a Kitten, Richard Scarry’s Best Christmas Book Ever!”_

“What’s Christmas?” Misfire asked.

“No idea,” Fulcrum said, just as the music coming over his speakers began wishing him a merry one.

Before Fulcrum could search the word on the Galactic Web, a loud knocking sounded on his door, followed by a goofy announcement: “Knock, knock!”

Only one person on the WAP felt the urge to describe his actions after the fact. Fulcrum opened the door. “What do you want, Spinister?”

“Krok says fueling time,” Spinister beamed, holding out a tray loaded with energon and two bowls of Data Chipz. “You were busy so I brought you this.”

“That’s really sweet, Spinister. You want to come in?”

Another voice echoed down the corridor. “Where’s my damn fuel, Spinister? And what in the Pit is that Primus-awful music?”

Spinister came inside and set the big tray down on Fulcrum’s table. “Hey Crankcase,” he called, “come in, fuel up, and chill out.”

Fulcrum cringed automatically as Crankcase stormed through the door, but by now he’d learned that Crankcase wouldn’t actually hurt him. Grouchy was just…just Crankcase being Crankcase. And being hungry wouldn’t help his temperament, so…

“This song is _horrible_ ,” Crankcase said as he helped himself to an energon cube, and then a dissenting opinion sounded just behind him.

“Me Grimlock love this song.”

The Dynobot—in creature mode—lumbered into the room and plopped himself next to the sound system, grinning a big toothy grin.

“Yeah. Come on in. Party in my workshop,” said Fulcrum, throwing up his hands in frustration. _Personal space_ was a concept utterly beyond the grasp of any of the other Scavengers. “Why not.”

Misfire actually set down his controller to pick up some of the data sticks and cram them into Fulcrum’s datapads until he found a match that worked. “Yeah, here you go, Crankcase! We found a ghost story for you. And here, Spinister, this one’s got lots of pictures.” Misfire seemed quite content to root around in the box, pulling up every book he could find on a different datapad without ever actually picking any single story to examine in depth.

Fulcrum smiled despite himself as he took a cube. The Scavengers were rude, and pushy, and messy, but they were his friends. And it was kind of fun having everyone together, refueling and enjoying themselves.

Then a new song came over the speakers, and Grimlock started to sing along, thumping his tail in time with the beat. His lyrics, though, didn’t quite match up: “Jingle Bells, Megatron smells, a hundred miles away! Autobots, call the shots, happy Christmas day!”

Misfire and Fulcrum exchanged glances.

“Hey, you don’t think he actually knows this song, do you, Fulcrum?”

“You think he’s smart enough to make that up himself?” Fulcrum asked.

“Me Grimlock love Christmas,” the Dynobot beamed.

Carefully, Fulcrum walked up to Grimlock. “You know any other Christmas songs, Grimmy?”

“Oh yeah! Me know Here Comes Santa Claus and Rudolph the Reindeer and Twelve Days of Christmas! Me like that one…” Grimlock paused, scratching his chin with a tiny hand. “Me Grimlock think me used to not like that one. Don’t know why. That one _great_.” He gave them all a big Dynobot smile. “These ones all great.”

“Here it is,” said Spinister excitedly, holding up a list of songs. “Twelve Days of Christmas.” Spinister pressed a few buttons on the music player, and soon a voice rang out from the speakers, singing about a gift received.

“So,” Fulcrum said casually, “what’s Christmas, Grimlock?”

Grimlock snorted. “You funny.”

“No. Seriously.”

“ _Everyone_ knows Christmas! Parties, games, fuel…too much fuel,” said the Dynobot with a chuckle. “Pretty decorations! Music, stories!”

“So, like a Monacus pub crawl?” Misfire asked unhelpfully.

“No! Stay home, with friends. Give presents.”

“I want a present,” Spinister said, his optics glowing.

Crankcase snorted. “If you want a present you should’ve stolen yourself one.”

“No, wait,” said Misfire, “I think Big Grim is on to something. That _does_ sound like fun. And we’ve got all this new stuff! I say we ask Krok if he’ll let us open up the engex canister, and we all go down to the lounge, watch vids and drink engex and play games and have ourselves one of these Merry Christmases until we all pass out.”

Spinister and Grimlock clapped. Even Crankcase looked vaguely interested. 

Fulcrum had to admit the idea was tempting, but something was still bothering him. Why was Earth entertainment in a box marked with an Autobot logo? He rummaged around in the box, sorting through a few crates filled with miniatures that strongly resembled very tiny data sticks, before pulling out one last item: a battered datapad. Fulcrum flipped the power switch. The screen flickered, but came alight. Some charge still remained in its power cell. Enough for Fulcrum to read the message on the screen.

“ _Dear Uncle Magnus_ ,” Fulcrum read out loud.

“Did you say Ultra Magnus?” Crankcase demanded. “As in Duly Apppointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord?”

“No. There’s weird linguistics here…it’s been translated from some alien language but this is clearly two phonetic groups displayed here: Un – Kl. Then a string of characters indicating _mentor, teacher, family_. And you guys do know I’m an engineer and not a linguist, right?”

“I’m impressed,” Misfire said.

“Thanks, Misfire. You don’t do as many terraforming projects as I did and not develop at least a basic understanding of alien words and concepts expressed in Cybertronian languages. _Now_ can I finish reading this?”

Crankcase grumbled.

“ _Dear Uncle Magnus, I’m passing this stuff to you. It used to be Hunter’s_.” Fulcrum looked up. “Hunter is a person’s name, not a title like Seeker or Enforcer, as far as I can tell.” He resumed reading. “ _I never got to experience many hallmark moments_ …no, wait, I think that’s capitalized… _Hallmark moments_.” Oh, there’s a note here: _traditional happy family, sentimental junk_. It continues, “ _But Hunter told me about Christmas with his family growing up, and that it was something special for him. These albums, books, and movies were his. He said that if I didn’t have a lot of good holiday memories, I could share his, if I wanted. Well, now I’m on the road, and I don’t have room in my pack to carry this stuff. I could dump it in a storage unit somewhere, or I could give it to you. I doubt you have Christmas on Cybertron, but hey. If you want some holiday memories, Hunter has enough to go around. At the very least, I hope when you take these things out and look at them, you’ll think of me. I’ll always be thinking about you. Your friend, Verity Carlo.”_

Grimlock thumped his tail, as if he knew the name.

“ _P.S. I know you hate when I copy movies and music and OKAY maybe it is kind of sort of against a law but it’s a stupid law and it shouldn’t be too bad for me to make a copy that actually works properly on your tech so you don’t have to fiddle with ours all the time. I know it’s kind of small for you. Also I gave you the original copies too so I think this stuff is mostly legal. I hope._

“Pfft,” Spinister said, because the Scavengers had stopped caring about legal a long time ago. They were more concerned with _getting caught_.

Fulcrum looked back into the box. He’d hoped that churning feeling in his fuel tank would go away. Instead, it seemed to be getting worse.

“This is a dead guy’s stuff,” Fulcrum said.

“So?” Crankcase asked.

“This is a box of memories passed on from friend to friend.”

“Yeah, so?” Misfire demanded.

“And we stole it.”

“S’what we do,” Spinister commented.

“Guys.” Fulcrum shook his head. “This isn’t right.”

“Fulcrum. Buddy,” Misfire said, wrapping his arm around Fulcrum’s shoulders. “We are appropriation specialists. If Ultra Magnus didn’t want us to have this box, he should’ve secured it properly.”

“It was in a locked storage unit.”

“I said _properly_. One crummy door lock, that’s not security, that’s a _challenge_. Practically an _invitation_. If this was really important, he’d have, I dunno, put like a million death rays and a pack of spark-eating turbofoxes to protect it.”

“Death…rays?” Fulcrum sighed. “Rays that cause death, _how_?”

“By killing you. Stupid.”

Fulcrum rolled his optics. Trying to discuss science with Misfire always gave him a headache.

“C’mon, let’s move this to the lounge,” Crankcase said. “This room’s too crowded and the viewscreen’s down there.”

Spinister beamed. “We can make decorations.”

Misfire happily tossed the datapads into the box along with the data sticks and scooped it up into his arms. “Let’s go, guys!”

Fulcrum still had his misgivings. He supposed he should be grateful they weren’t going to trash his workshop, and he did want to have fun with his friends, but…

A thought occurred to him. “Where’s Krok?” Fulcrum asked.

Crankcase shrugged. “Up on the bridge looking at those maps.”

“You, ah, you think we should send him some fuel?”

“I already did,” Spinister said quietly. His optics flickered with an unreadable emotion. “I, um, I think he’s going to be up there for a while.”

“His loss,” said the Dynobot. “More Christmas for me Grimlock.”

“Yeah,” Misfire said, his voice unusually subdued. “This is close to the time of year when Krok lost touch with his old unit. And every year he gets like this.”

Fulcrum felt a pang of sympathy for his leader. “What do you guys do?”

“Stay the hell away, he’s super grouchy.” With that glib pronouncement, Misfire dashed out of the room, with the others trailing after him.

Fulcrum hesitated. Part of him wanted to go up to the bridge and see if Krok was okay. On the other hand, Spinister had given Krok some fuel, and if he really was as “super grouchy” as Misfire suggested, Fulcrum wasn’t sure he wanted to provoke Krok’s ire.

This Christmas thing was supposed to be fun. But between Krok’s seasonal depression and the knowledge that the Scavengers’ entertainment was made of things given in memory of a dead friend—things which Fulcrum had stolen—Fulcrum couldn’t help but regret ever learning the word Christmas.


	3. Peace in Space, and Good Will to all Mechs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However long you may have walked in darkness,  
> know that light will always return.  
> The longest night is over,  
> and the sun, newly reborn, is rising.  
> Blessed Yule Solstice to all my readers :)

Chapter Three: Peace in Space, and Good Will to all Mechs

The closing credits played on Alastair Sim’s rendition of _A Christmas Carol_. Crankcase nodded, despite himself. “Yeah, that actually didn’t completely suck. Is there anything else with ghosts in it?”

“Don’t think so,” Misfire said. “But hey, look at this. Apparently it’s about a bunch of guys who like to spend the holidays stealing stuff, getting overenergized and having bonfires. Kind of like us. You in?”

Spinister nodded. Grimlock slammed his tail on the floor. Fulcrum forced a smile onto his face.

The lounge of the WAP actually didn’t look half bad. The Scavengers didn’t have any proper decorations, but they did have a lot of rope, chain, and shiny bits of metal. They’d gotten one of the big bristly pipe snakes for cleaning the WAP’s exhaust ports and stuck the handle in a bucket which they filled with caulking. Crankcase had made a star to hang on top, and Spinister had somehow managed to rig some leftover floor illumination piping into a half-decent spiral of holiday lights. Fulcrum had actually managed to forget his misgivings and enjoy hanging little homemade decorations on the ersatz Christmas tree. It didn’t hurt that Crankcase had issued an executive order in Krok’s absence and cracked open the engex tank. 

Over the course of _A Christmas Carol_ , though, Fulcrum’s good mood had slipped away. Maybe it was that he had sobered up, or maybe it was that sitting still had given him time to think, or maybe it was just the moral of the story he’d just seen. Ghosts might not actually exist, but his guilt was all too real. 

“ _Trailer Park Boys Xmas Special_ it is,” Misfire said, selecting the vid and clicking play.

Misfire poured himself another glass of engex and plopped down on the couch next to Fulcrum, wrapping his arm around the other mech’s shoulders. “Merry freakin’ Christmas!”

While the other Scavengers roared with laughter at the misadventures of the hapless flesh creatures on the screen, Fulcrum found himself feeling pretty badly about what he’d done. He turned on one of the datapads and tried to distract himself. 

The book he found himself reading was a war story. Fulcrum didn’t understand why these two groups of humans were fighting each other, but he realized he didn’t really know why the Decepticons and Autobots were fighting, either. It was that way when he’d come online, and it had been that way as long as he could remember. He often forgot that now the war was allegedly over.

His gaze fell on Grimlock. No matter which side had won the war, Grimlock was the Scavengers’ ticket to a better life. Either Optimus Prime would be so glad to see his ally again that he’d forgive the Scavengers for being Decepticons, or Megatron would give them all medals for capturing such a dangerous Autobot.

Fulcrum wanted the second option. Of course he did. Nobody wanted to be a loser. Things would be so much better if the WAP returned to Decepticon victory on Cybertron.

…Except for Grimlock. Things wouldn’t be very good for him at all, if Megatron had won.

Fulcrum looked back at his book. Christmas, again. A time when the two warring sides had stopped fighting and decided to hang out together instead, singing songs, playing games, sharing food and homemade gifts. A time for peace on Earth.

Fulcrum’s gaze slid back to Grimlock. One of the Autobots' most fearsome warriors, curled up with his snout resting on Spinister’s lap, eating energon tidbits that Misfire tossed to him, laughing as they watched a vid together.

Yes. It could happen. A time when old enemies reconciled. Peace all across the galaxy.

An arrow of guilt stabbed Fulcrum right in the spark.

As the credits played on the vid, Fulcrum got to his feet. He knew what he needed to do.

“Hey, where are you going?” Misfire asked. “You’ve got all our Christmas stuff in that box! At least let us have another vid.”

“I’m going to my workshop to copy these data sticks. You can have any vid you want when I’m done.”

“Copies?” Spinister inquired.

“Yeah. Copies for us to keep.”

Spinister beamed. Crankcase wasn’t so sure. “What are you going to do with the originals?”

Fulcrum took a deep breath. “Give them back.”

Silence fell thick across the lounge. Then, as one, the other Scavengers started laughing.

“Hey, that’s a good one,” Misfire giggled.

“Shut up. I’m serious!”

“Yeah, r…”

Spinister elbowed Misfire in the midsection. “I think he means it.”

“You’re glitching,” Crankcase scowled.

Three sets of optics turned to Fulcrum. Even Grimlock clued in that something was going on, and lifted his muzzle from a bowl of Data Chipz.

“We hecked up,” Fulcrum said quietly.

“What?” Misfire asked.

“We hecked up. Look at this.” He lifted the datapad about the Christmas Truce and flipped through the images. “Peace on earth and good will to one’s fellow bots, right? That’s what Christmas is supposed to be about. Well, guess what? The war’s over, and what are we doing? Breaking into storage units and stealing Ultra Magnus’s stuff.”

“We didn’t know it was his stuff when we took it,” Spinister said.

“This stuff is awesome,” Crankcase argued, “and it’s not like we had the shanix to buy it.”

“You are insane,” Misfire said. “You are completely and utterly insane.”

“I’m not insane,” Fulcrum protested. “We did a jerky thing, and I want to set it right.”

“By giving that box back to Ultra Magnus.”

“It’s his stuff.”

“Can we at least make copies for ourselves, first?” Spinister pleaded.

“Well, _yeah_ , sure we can. I’m going to my workshop to do that right now. No harm, no foul, right?” Fulcrum forced a smile. “See, everybody wins. We get our Christmas and Magnus gets his belongings back.”

Crankcase shook his head. “This is the same Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, one of the most terrifying Autobots ever, and you’re going to walk up to him and told him you jacked his stuff, and you’re not insane?”

“You don’t need to put it that way, and I was thinking more like putting the box on his doorstep, ringing the bell, and running away.”

Crankcase frowned. “Krok will never go for it.”

“Fine,” Fulcrum snapped. “You go ask Krok. We’ll write a letter while you’re gone.”

“Bah. Humbug.” Crankcase scowled and stormed out.

#

Spinister, Misfire and Fulcrum were busy in Fulcrum’s workshop again. They’d left Grimlock in the lounge, happily watching _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ and eating Data Chipz. Misfire had insisted on playing more Christmas music in the workshop, and now the chorus of a song called _Santa Claus Is Coming To Town_ played over the speakers.

Making a List. Checking it twice. Fulcrum shivered. “Are you sure this song isn’t about the DJD?”

“Can you imagine Tarn in a Santa hat?” Misfire quipped.

“I don’t want to imagine Tarn, period,” Fulcrum said, skipping ahead to the next song. _Kentucky Homemade Christmas_ was much more Fulcrum’s style. “… _no store bought gifts to open, but it’s Christmas just the same_.” Yes. Making the best of a bad situation was something Fulcrum understood.

Spinister hummed along as he ran each data stick in turn through a device that created copies of all the books, vids, and files. Fulcrum kept a wary eye on Spinister, but it seemed that the helicopter knew what he was doing.

Which was more than Fulcrum could say for Misfire’s letter-writing skills.

“Dear Ultra Magnus,” Misfire dictated. “If you ever wanna see your stuff again, meet us at the following coordinates.”

Fulcrum frowned. “That sounds like we’re writing a ransom note.”

“No,” Misfire said. “Or we’d put something like _bring a million billion shanix_.” 

“I dunno, it still seems kind of threatening somehow.” 

“So put “please” at the end.”

Fulcrum squinted at the datapad, deleted the letter, and tried again. “How about this: Dear Ultra Magnus: We found your stuff. Please come to these coordinates to come pick it up.”

“And bring money.”

Fulcrum shot Misfire a look.

“Or food! Food’s good too!”

“We’re not holding his stuff for ransom! We’re trying to do something nice and give it back! For free!”

“Geez! Fine. But if he _does_ offer a reward, I’m _totally_ accepting it.”

“What are you idiots doing?” came a surly voice from the doorway.

Misfire grinned. “Oh, hi Krok! This stuff we stole belongs to Ultra Magnus and it’s Christmas and the war’s over so we’re going to give it back and maybe get paid…ow!” Misfire winced as Fulcrum kicked him under the table.

“Like the Inferno we are.” Krok scowled as he stormed into the workshop with Crankcase following at his heels. “I don’t care if the war’s over. Do you have any idea what the Autobots did? Do you have any idea what happened to the guys in my… what the Autobots did to… what I saw… _do you have any idea what monsters Autobots are_? And you _idiots_ want to piss off _Ultra Magnus_ on _purpose_? Absolutely _not_!”

“But Krok,” Spinister whined, “stealing is bad and bad things get you put on the naughty list and if you’re on the naughty list then Santa doesn’t bring you any presents and if you’re on the naughty list the DJD come and murder you to death!”

Krok just gawked at Spinister. Fulcrum had to admit it was hard to argue with that kind of stupid.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Krok growled. “The answer is _no_.”

Fulcrum drew a deep breath. Mutiny was a bad thing, a very, very bad thing that got Decepticons killed, but Krok was in the wrong and Fulcrum knew it. “I have to do this, Krok,” Fuclrum stammered, through a throat half-choked with fear. If Magnus didn’t kill him, Krok would, and yet Fulcrum couldn’t see any way he could live with himself if he didn’t at least try to return the box to its rightful owner.

“No, you don’t,” Crankcase said, folding his arms and siding with Krok. “Krok’s right. Why stir up trouble when you don’t have to?”

Spinister came up beside Fulcrum, mumbling the words “naughty list” under his breath. Two sides faced off across Fulcrum’s workshop. 

Krok tilted his head. “Misfire? What’ll it be? You going to help me toss these two mutineers in the brig, or are you going to go rogue with Fulcrum and Spinister?”

Misfire’s jaw dropped. His optics darted back and forth between Fulcrum and Spinister, and for the first time, he was utterly speechless. Fulcrum could guess what he was thinking. Being asked to choose between his commander and his…well, Misfire had never actually used a word to describe what Fulcrum was to him, and neither had Fulcrum, but they were _fond_ of each other. It wasn’t fair for Fulcrum to make Misfire pick between him and their leader. Either way Misfire chose, he was going to lose, and he knew it.

“Nobody’s choosing anything,” Fulcrum found himself saying. “This isn’t a mutiny and I don’t want to be leader, and I don’t want Krok replaced as leader. I just want to do something that has to be done.” He fixed his gaze on Krok. “Krok, if the Autobots took everything you had of your old unit, you’d want them to give it back, right?”

Krok’s right hand tightened into a fist, holding a small object with a death grip. “They wouldn’t give it back.”

“But we’re Decepticons, so we have to be _better_ than Autobots. It doesn’t matter if you think they wouldn’t. That doesn’t mean _we_ have to be jerks. Besides, it’s Christmas and that means the galaxy is at peace, and I think you…I think you’re the kind of leader who’s going to do the right thing.” Fulcrum took a deep breath. “This stuff belonged to someone who’s dead now, and he left it to his friend, and his friend gave it to Ultra Magnus, so that’s where it needs to be.”

Krok fidgeted. “I still think Ultra Magnus is going to be angry that you took it.”

“So we don’t stick around. We land on some backplanet dirtball, set up the box under a signal beacon, and fly like hell for…I don’t know, Hedonia or something.”

“That’s good enough for you?” Krok asked suspiciously.

“Hell, I don’t want to get pounded into the turf or locked up in a brig forever I just want this box back with its rightful owner.”

Krok nodded, thinking that over. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I guess that could work.”

“And meanwhile, Spinister is copying all this stuff for us, so we have a ton of new vids and books and music, and we decorated the lounge, and we can all celebrate having some good fortune for once.”

Krok looked down at his hand, squeezed his fingers one last time, and then lifted his head. “Yeah. No sense living in the past, right? Seize the moment.”

“And get off the naughty list,” Spinister said.

“And get back to getting overenergized,” Crankcase added.

“And we’ll all have a merry Christmas,” Misfire grinned.

Fulcrum exhaled slowly. Problem solved. Right?

So why did he still have this awful feeling that there was something he was still overlooking?


	4. I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas Eve! Have a merry one :)

Chapter Four: I’ll Be Home for Christmas

“If you’re going to persist in this idiocy, you have two breems,” Krok growled. “And not an astrosecond longer. Got that? You’re back on board or we’re leaving you here.” The Scavengers’ leader begrudgingly opened the WAP’s port hatch, revealing the desolate surface of a barren planetoid.

Fulcrum was not entirely certain that Krok really would leave him here, but he wasn’t about to call his commander’s bluff. 

“Got it.” Fulcrum saluted, awkwardly, because he had Ultra Magnus’s box in one arm, and a jury-rigged signal beacon on a stake in the other.

“Need some help, pinhead?” Misfire asked.

Fulcrum was about to snap a _no_ when he realized what he was doing…and why.

Back in his terraforming days, particularly before he’d been promoted to project manager, certain bigger and stronger Decepticons had taken a perverse delight in offering to “help” Fulcrum handle heavy equipment. Some of them liked to “accidentally” drop it at inopportune times, like when it would land on Fulcrum’s foot, or when a superior would be walking by who could blame Fulcrum for any damage done. Others just needed to make themselves look good, whether that be by insinuating that Fulcrum wasn’t capable, or by showing off their own abilities at every occasion. Fulcrum had needed to work twice as hard to be taken seriously, even when he was project manager, and he’d learned the hard way that the answer to these “offers” was always no. He got a lot farther doing things for himself.

Except that this was Misfire.

And the only thing Misfire could possibly get out of helping him now was a share of Krok’s ire.

So Fulcrum forced a smile on his face and said “Sure.” And as Misfire took the signal beacon, Fulcrum realized that his fake smile had become real.

“We’ll be right back,” Fulcrum assured Krok, as he exited the WAP. 

Krok just stood in the doorway and nodded. Then another figure stuck its head out of the hatch. “Me Grimlock go with you.”

Fulcrum set his jaw. He had to get this done before he lost his nerve. He didn’t have time to argue with the Dinobot.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Fulcrum and Misfire set out across the dry, dusty plain. It was cold, and both of them shivered in the chill. Grimlock didn’t seem to notice the temperature as he stomped along behind them, clasping a datapad that played “Twelve Days of Christmas” over and over, singing along in a series of growls and grunts.

“Are you sure you have to do this?” Misfire asked.

“Yes.” Fulcrum didn’t want to argue with Misfire, either.

“Really sure?”

“Yes.” Fulcrum pushed past Misfire and started walking faster.

“Like, totally sure?” Misfire had to skip to keep up with Fulcrum’s rapid pace. Grimlock’s long strides kept the Dynobot by Fulcrum’s left shoulder, so Misfire ran along on Fulcrum’s right.

“Yes. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“Okay.” 

A few steps later, Fulcrum realized that Misfire was still trotting beside him. More remarkably, Misfire was actually being quiet.

“Are you all right?” Fulcrum asked.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to be here.”

“I’m not letting you do this alone. Unless Magnus shows up. Then it’s every bot for himself.”

“He won’t. I’m just going to plant the beacon, turn it on, and run for the WAP.”

“Okay.”

Fulcrum gave Misfire a hard look. Misfire blinked back innocently. Fulcrum realized that Misfire was actually trusting him to know what he was doing.

“Okay,” Fulcrum said, “how about over there, by those rocks? Looks like that’ll be about as much shelter as we’re gonna find here. I want you to hold the beacon stake in place, and I’ll pile rocks around the base to keep it upright. How’s that?”

“You’re the boss, loser.”

“I’m the Boss Loser.” Fulcrum couldn’t help a snicker. “Then you’re my First Officer. My _Worst_ Officer.”

Misfire grinned. “Let’s do this. Boss.”

#

Fulcrum carefully set Ultra Magnus’ box in the lee of a pile of rocks. It wasn’t the best place in the galaxy—it was outside, where native wildlife might find it, or a wanderer could stumble across it and take it—but the weather was calm and the box was strong. Hopefully Magnus would come pick it up before there was a hurricane or something here. And if he didn’t, that wasn’t Fulcrum’s fault.

Fulcrum looked over at the Dynobot, who was gleefully dancing along to the music on his datapad. He could argue that Grimlock’s eventual fate wasn’t his fault either, but even if he could convince everyone else, Fulcrum knew he could never convince himself.

Fulcrum double-checked the beacon device and went to turn it on. He hesitated with his finger on the switch.

“Grimlock,” he said quietly.

“What you want?” The Dynobot peered down at him.

Fulcrum shot a guilty look at Misfire. Then he took a deep breath and said, “I want you to stay here with the box.”

“Krok said you leave. Go to Hedonia.”

Fulcrum felt the air slowly leave his vents. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re leaving. And you’re staying here.”

Grimlock tilted his head. “Why you leave me Grimlock?”

“What?!” Misfire demanded, rubbing at his audios as if certain he’d been mishearing all this time.

Fulcrum sighed. The other Scavengers were going to be really angry about this. “If you stay here with this box, Grimlock, the other Autobots will come find you and take you home.” He reached out his hand and touched the Autobot insignia on Grimlock’s chest. “Your friends. Will take you. Home. Do you understand?”

“You Fulcrum my friend. Me Grimlock want to go with you.”

Fulcrum shook his head. “No. Look.” Fulcrum pointed to the badge on his helmet. “Decepticon.” He pointed to Misfire’s badge. “Decepticon.” Then he pointed to Grimlock’s badge. “Autobot.”

Grimlock made a sad sound.

“Grimlock, you belong with the other Autobots.”

Grimlock snuffled.

“Now wait just a fracking minute,” snapped Misfire. “You can’t do this!”

“I can and I will,” Fulcrum retorted. “Think about Grimlock. What’s going to happen if we keep him? All of us want Megatron to have won the war. If that happened, and we make it back to Cybertron, and we give Grimlock to Megatron, do you have any idea what will happen to him? It would be nicer for us to offline him now and put him out of his misery!” 

“Yeah, and if Megatron won and we _don’t_ have Grimlock, then Megatron gives _us_ to the DJD and we might as well offline _ourselves_ right now!”

There was that. There was definitely that, but Fulcrum couldn’t think of Grimlock as a prisoner of war any more. The big Dynobot was a strange kind of friend, and Fulcrum couldn’t turn his friends over to be tortured and enslaved.

“We survived the DJD before,” Fulcrum said stubbornly. Privately, though, he was starting to doubt his decision. Grimlock was his friends’ “get out of being murdered by the DJD” ticket, no matter who won the war. If Optimus Prime had won, the Scavengers really needed a bargaining chip. Could Fulcrum make that decision without asking the others?

Grimlock nuzzled Fulcrum and the K-class Decepticon felt guilty all over again. 

Misfire sighed. “Yeah. We did. And I kind of like the big lout too.” He reached up and scratched Grimlock behind the cheek. “Look, you gotta stay here, buddy. Go home where you belong.”

Grimlock bowed his head. “Me Grimlock go home where me belong.”

“Yeah,” Fulcrum said quietly. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Fulcrum patted Grimlock’s snout. Then he pressed the activation beacon.

“Bye, Grimmy,” Misfire said. “Don’t forget us.”

“Yeah.” Fulcrum forced a smile. “Put in a good word to Ultra Magnus and Optimus Prime for us.”

“Me Grimlock say good word.”

“Bye, Grims,” Fulcrum said softly.

Then he turned his back and walked away hurriedly, before he could change his mind.

A moment later, Fulcrum felt a soft touch on his hand.

He looked to his left. Misfire was still keeping pace with him. The jet offered him a tentative smile.

Fulcrum curled his hand around Misfire’s and squeezed gently, grateful for the support.

They hastened back to the WAP together.

#

Krok greeted them at the boarding hatch. “Are you two idiots done?” he demanded coldly.

Misfire opened his mouth, as he was wont to do, but Fulcrum wouldn’t let his friend take the fall for his decision. “Yeah,” Fulcrum said. “We’re done.”

“Go help Crankcase with the preflight checks and let’s get out of here before the Autobots show up.”

Fulcrum headed down the corridor to the cockpit. Behind him, Misfire whispered in a voice louder than some mechs’ usual speaking voices, “Do you think he knows Grimlock isn’t aboard?”

“Sssh!” Fulcrum hissed.

“Sorry,” Misfire stage-whispered back.

When they reached the cockpit, Crankcase set Fulcrum to work watching the new fuel cell in the engine room while he went through pre-takeoff sequences. Misfire was assigned the job of ensuring all the hatches on the ship were properly sealed. Fulcrum did his best to focus on his job, hoping nobody would notice the Dynobot’s absence, and also hoping Ultra Magnus wouldn’t show up before the Scavengers could get safely away. Only when the WAP cleared orbit did Fulcrum let out a sigh of relief.

“Hey Fulcrum,” Crankcase said, sticking his head through the engine room doorway. “It’ll be the better part of a week before we hit Hedonia, and now that you’ve got the stupid out of your systems, Krok says we should get together in the lounge and maybe do that Christmas thing.”

Fulcrum felt himself on the verge of panic all over again as he followed after Crankcase. Sooner or later the others would notice that their meal ticket had disappeared.

Except when Fulcrum stepped through the door of the lounge, he found Spinister standing on Grimlock’s shoulders, placing a battered tin star at the top of a very straggly native conifer.

“What the…” Fulcrum blurted. He looked at Crankcase, then Krok, then Misfire for an explanation. 

Misfire shrugged. “Krok never got to decorate our brush tree, so we decided to do a second tree.”

“Not what I meant.” Fulcrum looked meaningfully at Grimlock. Misfire blinked dumbly. Crankcase and Krok didn’t even seem to notice anything amiss. 

As usual, Fulcrum had to take matters into his own hands. “What are you doing here?” Fulcrum demanded of the Dynobot.

“Me Grimlock home,” the Dynobot said.

Fulcrum slapped his face with his palm and rubbed at his temples. “You were supposed to go home with the Autobots.”

“What?” Krok demanded.

“No. Me Grimlock home _right now_.” Grimlock wrapped one tiny arm around Krok and the other around Fulcrum. Spinister hugged the Dynobot’s neck. “Home is where friends are. Me Grimlock _home_.”

Fulcrum smiled. “That’s sweet, Grimlock.” 

“Me Grimlock not sweet, me king. King of Space Jenga!”

Krok hissed to Fulcrum, “You were going to let him go back to the Autobots?”

Fulcrum glowered back. “You are _not_ handing him over to Megatron. You _can’t_.”

Grimlock nuzzled Krok.

Krok stammered, “I…I…” Then he sighed. “No, I guess I’m not. A good commander never abandons his unit. Never….never leaves a mech behind.”

Krok looked down at the item clasped firmly in his hand. Then, very slowly, he opened a storage compartment and let the object fall from his palm into the cavity. Carefully, Krok fastened the compartment, sealing the item inside. Finally, he reached up his now-empty hand and patted Grimlock on the snout.

Grimlock beamed. “It good to be home.”

“Yeah,” Krok said quietly. “Yeah, it is.” He turned to his Scavengers, looking over each one of them in turn. “Merry Christmas, losers.”

Fulcrum couldn’t see Krok’s mouth behind his mask. He didn’t need to, to hear the smile in his leader’s voice.

“Merry Christmas, Krok,” Fulcrum said.


	5. Epilogue the First:  Christmas at Ground Zero

Epilogue the First: Christmas At Ground Zero

Ultra Magnus was beginning to regret asking for backup on this excursion.

“Who thinks there’s going to be a fight?” Whirl asked. Ultra Magnus could hear the ex-Wrecker’s guns powering up from across the shuttle.

“I’ll take that bet,” said Getaway. “Fifty credits says this trip is nothing but a waste of time.”

Nautica frowned. “You think those are the only two options? A big fight, or nothing?”

“With this bunch? Pretty much,” replied Skids with a lazy grin. “I mean, I love ‘em and all, but those are pretty much our specialties: ridiculous side trips that go nowhere, or complete and utter disasters.”

The truth of Skids’ words stung Ultra Magnus with a deep and abiding sense of shame. He’d never thought he, of all mechs, would be responsible for either of those two things. Now, in addition to his role in the Luna-One mess, here he was, chasing down a distress beacon cued to his own personal frequency. It was either a trap or…or some kind of glitch, Ultra Magnus was certain, but it was on _his_ frequency and that meant it was his duty to deal with it, whatever it might be.

He’d tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. Deliberately shirking a responsibility was against his nature.

So he’d borrowed a shuttle, taken a small team of Autobots for backup, and gone out to follow the beacon down to the planetary surface below. The world was unremarkable, just one more rock occupied only by a few hardy prospectors and scientific teams. Ultra Magnus couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to lure him here, or why they’d used such a laughable message to do it.

“Dear Ultra Magnus, we found your stuff. Please meet us at these coordinates to pick it up. Oh, and if you want to give us a reward that would be very awesome.”

It had to be a trap.

But when the shuttle doors opened, and Whirl bounced out, ready to fire on the first thing that moved…not a creature was stirring.

Not even a turborat.

Whirl fired off a few rounds anyway, just to make sure, but nobody emerged from hiding. From behind the former Wrecker, Ultra Magnus could see a crude beacon mounted on a pole, and sitting at the base of it, a box with an Autobot logo on top.

A very familiar box.

“Pay up,” Getaway said, lowering his gun.

“Frag you,” Whirl retorted.

Skids shouldered his way in between the two of them. “What’ve we got here?”

“Something of mine,” Ultra Magnus said, his voice filled with wonder. He dropped to his knees and lifted up the box. “Something I lost about two years ago. I had intended to ship it to Cybertron, but the courier ship got hit by pirates, and my package was declared lost. I never thought I’d see it again.” 

“And some kind soul found it,” Nautica mused, “and she set up this beacon so you could retrieve it. But…who was it? And why didn’t she bring it to you herself, or at least meet us here?”

“Maybe this will give us a clue,” Skids suggested. He picked up a battered datapad that lay a few paces away on the ground. After activating the screen, Skids looked at it for a moment before passing it, wordlessly, to Ultra Magnus.

ULTRA MAGNUS

IT ME, GRIMLOCK

ME GRIMLOCK SAY HI

ME GRIMLOCK ALSO SUPPOSED TO SAY GOOD WORD FOR FULCRUM AND MISFIRE

HERE IT IS

“GOODWORD.”

ME GRIMLOCK GO HOME WITH SCAVENGERS NOW 

WE ARE GOING TO HAVE CHRISTMAS PARTY

SAY HI TO OTHER AUTOBOTS FOR ME

AND MAYBE SAY GOOD WORD FOR ME, GRIMLOCK

BYE

“What is it?” Getaway asked.

“Grimlock,” Ultra Magnus mused.

“Grimlock?” Whirl asked. “Nobody’s heard from him since they shipped him to Garrus-9, and I don’t think we ever will. I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of guessing Overlord would’ve had a lot of fun with him.”

“If this message is recent,” Ultra Magnus said, “Grimlock’s still alive. And…I’m not sure if he’s _okay_ , exactly—he doesn’t sound like himself—but…but at least he sounds happy.”

“If we take that datapad back to the ship,” Nautica said, “maybe Nightbeat and I can analyze it, and see if we can find out anything more about Grimlock.”

“I concur,” said Ultra Magnus, as he passed her the datapad. “In the meantime…” He picked up the box. “On Earth it would be December 24th. Christmas Eve.”

“What’s that?” Getaway asked.

“A very special holiday,” Ultra Magnus said. “Skids, call ahead to Swerve and tell him I’d like to reserve the bar.”

“You?” Skids repeated incredulously. “The bar?”

“That’s right. There’s something I need to do in the name of some absent friends. One of whom is back on Earth. The other who…isn’t with us any more. I know what they’d like for me to do.”

“Let me guess,” Whirl said sourly. “We have to help.”

Ultra Magnus felt an uncharacteristic smile come to his lips. “Well, Whirl, if you don’t like movies, music, engex and parties, I’d be happy to put you on guard duty while the rest of us celebrate.”

“ _Ohhh_. Well. In that case. I’m sure I can do the noble thing and assist you. A little,” Whirl replied.


	6. Epilogue the Second:  Roasting on an Open Fire

Epilogue the Second: Roasting on an Open Fire

Far, far away on a world embraced by winter, a storyteller sat in an overstuffed chair before a blazing fire. Four eager listeners sat in a semi-circle at his feet. Outside, snowflakes tumbled one-by-one from the steel-grey skies to land on the great white plains below. Inside, though, everyone was cozy and warm, thanks to the heat radiating from the fireplace. 

“’I’m sorry, Saint Nicholas,’ said little Johnny, as he looked into his stocking and found only coal. ‘I promise I’ll be a good boy next year.’ But oh, it was far too late for little Johnny,” read the storyteller. 

The listeners leaned forward, entranced by the tale and the enchanting voice of the storyteller.

“Along came the Krampus with his black shaggy fur and his big sharp horns, carrying a huge burlap sack and a switch made of birch,” said the storyteller in his deep, lyrical voice. “And where Saint Nicholas’ sack was filled with gifts for the well-behaved children, the Krampus’ sack was empty. At least, at first. It didn’t stay empty for long. The Krampus picked up naughty little Johnny and stuffed him into his sack, and he was never seen or heard from again.”

The biggest of the listeners guffawed out loud. “Holiday Stories from the Planet Earth. With a title like that, I thought tonight was going to be boring,” he said to the skinny fellow beside him. “I was wrong. This is _great_.”

His thin friend nodded in agreement.

“What happened next?” asked the roundest of the listeners.

The storyteller looked down at his book. The tale ended there.

But the storyteller did so hate to disappoint his audience.

“Why, the Krampus took little Johnny home to his lair under the North Pole,” said the storyteller, making it up as he went. He was a humble mech, but he had to admit, he had a _flair_ for this sort of thing. “And in the Krampus’ basement rooms, little Johnny found himself in the company of all the other bad little boys and girls of the world. The Krampus tied Johnny to a big table and loomed over him, rubbing his hands together and thinking of all the marvellous possibilities that lay ahead. How should he punish little Johnny for his crimes?”

“Oh, oh!” The fourth listener reached out a hand, touching the storyteller’s leg. Empty optic sockets looked upward. “What were little Johnny’s crimes?”

“Why, little Johnny was a traitor to the Decepticon cause,” said Tarn with an audible smile. “And for Christmas that year, little Johnny received _exactly what he had coming to him_.”

Vos, Tesaraus and Helex positively wriggled with anticipation as Tarn began to describe the first of what would surely be many creative punishments to come.

Kaon beamed. “I _love_ stories with happy endings.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this marks the end of my Yuletide story. I hope you and yours have a great holiday season and a Happy New Year.


End file.
